Yes, Mama, I will shock you with what I have to tell, but my daughter and granddaughter should know their roots and I could never speak of such things. I can write it, though, I can write it all. And I can hope you’re happy with this.
1920
Summer
August; Tennessee. Floating along in the movement for nine years, I suddenly found myself in the rapids and having to dog-paddle fast.
I had just returned from a march in Rochester and owed notes of gratitude to the Mayor and police chief for ensuring a peaceful demonstration. They were not always so, but the last several months were bringing about less animosity, or at least more apathy, toward our cause. Our constant display was no longer a novelty and we either received quiet support, or silent scorn. But apathy from your enemies is your best defense, I learned. We had reached new heights when no one was looking, and it became more difficult for the anti-suffragists to bring us back down. States were ratifying the Nineteenth Amendment that would guarantee women the right to vote in all elections, and I had spent countless hours traveling to meet with state legislators and writing letters to state government representatives.
Endless … and then suddenly it came down to thirty-five states had ratified and thirty-six were needed to pass the amendment and Tennessee’s vote was due, and the telegram came. We descended on Nashville en masse.
Eunice was there at the Nashville train station as promised by our suffrage leader, Mrs. Carrie Chapman Catt. And, as expected, Eunice appeared solemn and stern, severe bun and the part in her gray hair so straight as to look painful. She had been part of Mama’s original Ladies Legion and Mama had told me years ago that Eunice was a divorced woman whose two children were lost to her husband’s custody. But this slice of her life did not fit into her demeanor at all and I always pondered this when in her presence. She never spoke of this part of her past with me, but then her divorce was more than ten years before, and her children would be grown by now. No, Eunice did not look like a mother, but could only be imagined with pen and paper in hand, not holding a child’s hand. These thoughts were only my own, of course.
We arrived in front of the State Legislature building amidst a mass of people, motor cars, horses, policemen, reporters, cameras - utter chaos. The street was packed with sounds, smells, and slogans. The sultry air was charged with rumors flashing like lightening. Everyone jostled and pushed, verbally pummeling each other. The anti-suffragists had also flooded into Nashville to lobby the General Assembly and they took their mandate as seriously as we suffragists did. Eunice and fellow suffragists who had arrived a few days earlier had been lobbying, passing out flyers, meeting with reporters, and ultimately in the face of anyone showing the slightest bit of interest.
We squeezed our way through until we reached inside the large hall. There by the door, tables were displayed, suffrage and the anti-suffrage, yellow roses on one, red roses on the other. The signs told me readily which I should choose and a yellow rose was pinned to my jacket lapel. Those wearing the red glared at me openly, as I did them. Black looks were part of the warfare yet I found it ridiculous and ironic that those I glared at were women like myself, but were misled into believing that suffrage - meaning the right to vote - was not in their best interest. Ignorant women!
Eunice led me to our suffragist leader, Mrs. Catt, waiting outside the Senate chamber with many others of our own. Mrs. Catt was noticeably nervous, her exact measures of calm and strength almost visibly quivering. Her smile came and went as she shook my hand too firmly, thanked me for coming and then stated, with some deprivation in her tone that this moment was exactly why she did not rejoice when the Nineteenth Amendment was passed by the House and Senate.
“They are in a tie, ladies. Many of the legislators on our side have fled the coop, either out of town, or to the opposition. The anti’s knew this and moved to table the Amendment, thinking their votes would win, but they had miscounted. The political maneuvering is continuing amongst them and then they shall vote again. All we can do is stand helplessly to the side and wait.”
And that is what we did. We entered the side door to the engorged chamber, two hundred men or so sitting or standing in its center, the woman’s future in their arena. Lines of women standing around its periphery, out of bounds, out of control. We watched, whispered, and waited while these well-suited gentlemen, their lapelled roses picking sides, waved their arms high, while keeping their voices low, mingling, meshing, speaking their superior minds. It appeared from where I stood, that the red roses prevailed. I could understand the anti’s rationale that they had more than a chance.
“We are in for a fine agitation,” I said and Mrs. Catt and Eunice tittered stiffly at my timely usage of Susan B. Anthony’s popular quote.
“Yes, indeed we – ” Mrs. Catt moved aside as much as possible to allow a gentleman into our tiny circle, people bumping our backsides. “Miss Wright, let me introduce you to Mr. Jere Phillips. Jere has proven to be an excellent activist on our behalf, as well as my driver and protector years ago. Mr. Phillips, this is our fellow warrior, Miss Wright.”
“Proud to meet you, ma’am.”
I nodded and forced a smile, not particularly wanting a stranger, and a man at that, standing in such close proximity to me at such a moment that I may wish to cry or display myself foolishly, depending on the vote. The lighting being poor behind the massive pillar where we stood caused his face to be shadowed, but his wide smile looked friendly enough.
“Mr. Phillips, by your accent, you must be from ‘around these parts’ as they say?”
“That’s right, ma’am. Just an hour’s drive up into the hills, when my truck’s running alright. Hard to believe now. It wasn’t that long ago, a trip like this by horse was nigh on a full day.”
He stood a foot taller than most men with hair longer than most and tucked behind his ears. He seemed to notice our disadvantaged heights as he looked at our heads and then toward the center of the chamber, many people in between. “Ladies, why don’t we poke on up to the second floor balcony, where we can look down on these politicians for a change?”
Mrs. Catt agreed and we spent too much precious time weaving our way up to a space along the balustrade. We arrived just as someone from below was banging a gavel, ordering that the meeting is now in session. I watched them, while Mr. Phillips watched me. Finally I turned to him and said, “Sir, you are staring.” I noticed then his distinct Indian features, with skin darkened by more than the sun, black hair penciled thinly with silver.
He blinked several times as if clearing his mind. “Sorry, ma’am, but you look very familiar to me. What did you say your name was?”
“Miss Bess Wright. And I don’t know you, sir. Nor do I wish to.” I turned back toward the proceedings thinking what unusually blue eyes he had. The better to see you with my dear, said the wolf. Well, I knew the outcome of that story and this wolf was not going to come close enough to eat me. I had fought off big bad wolves before.
The fateful roll call began, and I truly tried to concentrate, but Mr. Phillips would turn his attention to below, then back to me, then to below, and then – well it totally distracted me, him standing so close beside me and making his attention so obvious. I felt my face flush and become increasingly warm, to the point that perspiration rolled down my neck, behind my ear. I stepped back and behind Mrs. Catt. Soon enough Eunice turned and gripped my arm.
“Oh my God, Bess,” she hissed. “It’s tied with one vote to go!”
I stepped back up to my place at the balustrade – oh, this is all still so vivid to me! - and watched below as a very young-looking man stood up to a hushed audience. He turned toward me and I gripped the railing – he wore a red rose! Oh no, it can’t be! A lady and gentleman standing amongst our small upper mass of anxious spectators hugged one another in anticipated celebration, crushing their wilted red roses, I hoped fervently. The tiebreaker below us said nothing for what seemed like ages and then patted his breast pocket.
“What i
s your vote for the state of Tennessee to ratify the Nineteenth Amendment, Mr. Burn?” The speaker called out. “Do you vote yes or no?”
Mr. Burn cleared his throat. “I vote yes.”
Such an uproar around us and below us! I couldn’t believe it at first, until those closest to me, Mrs. Catt, Eunice, Mr. Phillips, were hugging each other and me. Mrs. Catt looked happiest of all, tears flowing freely, all reserve gone for now, declaring that every day of her forty years of fighting for this had been worth it, for this very moment. “Now I can truly rejoice!” she cried. Many others were approaching Mrs. Catt to congratulate, to extend their appreciation to her. I was so happy to be a part of this that I simply returned the kiss that Mr. Phillips planted fully on my mouth. He appeared as elated as Eunice and I, and I didn’t understand his connection to all this, but at that moment it didn’t matter.
The Nineteenth Amendment had become law. Mr. Burn’s vote ended seventy-two years of aching struggle and Mrs. Catt told him so some hours later, on the steps outside the building. Mr. Burn seemed a cautious sort, but was obviously impressed by Mrs. Catt. He patted her on the shoulder and with a boyish grin said, “Please. Call me Harry.” He brought out a letter from his breast pocket. “I know that a mother’s advice is always the safest for a boy to follow.” He read a portion of this letter to us: “‘Dear Son, vote for suffrage and do not keep them in doubt. I know some of the speeches against and they are very bitter.’”
Bitter indeed and I saw the anti-suffrage movement continue to delay official ratification for several days through their legal tricks and by holding massive anti-suffrage rallies. We stayed away from this and from the Hermitage Hotel where many were posted there on sentinel duty in the front lobby.
Instead, we worked around the anti’s noise, as a farmer might in the midst of a thunderstorm. We knew the rain would desist soon and the sun would come back out. It did when Tennessee reaffirmed its vote, and on August twenty-sixth, 1920, the Nineteenth Amendment was officially added to the U.S. Constitution.
We attended celebratory parties and dinners for several days, with Mr. Phillips as our escort and transportation. He seemed humble and appreciative of my attention to him, which I tried to limit, but he was persistent and at times irresistible with his chatty charm. I was not aware I was heading into his snare until it was too late.
One such night we met in the dining room of Mrs. Murphy’s boarding house where Eunice and I shared a room. A glowing evening, with candles and festive spirits and hearty laughter. The more generous the pouring of Mrs. Murphy’s prohibited port (this was during the Prohibition Days), the more funny things seemed. Mr. Phillips had joined us for dinner and he came suitably dressed in a black deacon’s coat, matching trousers, and a clean white shirt. I would even go so far as to say he was handsome with those piercing blue eyes (even though his age must’ve been around forty at that time). Eunice surprised us all by being quite coquettish. Something about Mr. Phillips’ down-to-earth friendly banter eased her ramrod posture and by dessert she was leaning over her plate with napkin to her mouth, squealing in delight to Mr. Phillips’ stories, strands of hair enjoying this moment of slack in gaily dangling about her ears.
He and his brothers were pranksters in their younger days, Mr. Phillips told his captive audience, and they showed no mercy to one another.
“We loved to play cowboys and Indians. But us being half-Cherokee, we all wanted to be Indians, which of course can’t be because then you don’t have anyone to shoot at. So I made up a contest ...” And so on and on he went, quite open really, a man being most charming when in a self-deprecating way. The evening filled with such stories and I admit I got caught up in it.
Upon retiring to my room, it suddenly struck me - too late I might add - that the ladies had not shared their own stories, stories of marches and picket lines and why we were celebrating in the first place. We had allowed a man to dominate the women’s victory! Did we need the man’s spark to warm and relax us? I pondered this for some time that night.
Mr. Phillips appeared on my doorstep early the next morning with the day’s newspaper. A picture of Alice Paul, president of the National Woman’s Party, appeared on the front page, draping a flag from her balcony in Washington DC. The thirty-sixth star, representing Tennessee, had been added to the thirty-five others that she had sewn on as each state ratified the Nineteenth Amendment. I longed to be there to celebrate with her in the nation’s capital. There was where the heart of the matter was; victory removed government roadblocks placed in front of suffrage for the forty-five years the amendment had been repeatedly reintroduced to Senate committees. The heartbeat there must have been deafening! Nashville lacked the luster I needed to radiate, as I sat with Mr. Phillips on the front porch swing reading the paper together. Other newspaper articles were local, and praise and ridicule focused on Harry Burn much more so than on the successes of women suffrage leaders. “Please spare me this boring diatribe,” I said with a yawn.
I became increasingly restless and fidgety, which Mr. Phillips clearly noticed. Would I like to go horseback riding, he asked? I said no, thank you. Mrs. Catt would want me to write letters, and newspaper articles for Annan’s paper but she betrayed me by saying, “Take a day off, you’re working too hard. Lighten up and stop being so testy!” I forgave her by knowing she remained elevated in victory and would soon enough return to earth and assign tedious tasks to me, so I took the day to play and soon found myself on a prancing mare heading toward the meadows. Mrs. Murphy’s picnic lunch bounced on the side of the saddle, her twinkling and winking eyes still fresh in my mind as she pointed out to Mr. Phillips that she had made his favorite cornbread - highly unusual with her being such a rotten cook. They were all in on this, I believe, to get me and my snapping judgments out of the house. Well, all but one.
I suspected Eunice had hoped to be the one on this horse. Strangely this made Mr. Phillips more appealing to me. I’m certain my smug smile said so. This smile increased with the warm breezes and cloudless sky. I hadn’t been in a saddle since my teen years; there was little or no need of these or their attached buggies, what with the regular supply of motor cars now. The sense of freedom one has when riding such a powerful animal flowed through me, and combined with liberation in winning the vote, gave me exhilaration hard to describe. Mr. Phillips apparently interpreted this as enjoying his company and was inspired to kiss me while finishing our picnic lunch. I returned the kiss; why not? His soft lips were warm and comforting. Relaxed and basking under the sun and under his tender gaze, I laughed with carefree abandon at his anecdotes and leaned back on my elbows looking up at the blue, blue sky and Mr. Phillips’ blue, blue eyes. He was quite charming in that confidant male sort of easy manner I’ve always envied.
I had come so far as to appreciate the deep creases around his eyes and mouth as more like decisive lines of wisdom, a man of purpose. The most pleasant surprise and one that drew me close to his side was that not only had he been Mrs. Catt’s protector and driver for several years while she traveled through many states on behalf of suffrage, but he appeared as her speaker at many of the lecture halls, assemblies and women’s conventions. He articulated very well that being half-Cherokee made him understand what it was like being in a minority, with prejudices being assumed because of how you were born into the world, be it race or sex. I felt thrilled to find this camaraderie in a man.
I had nothing to lose in indeed enjoying his company and I let my barriers down, guardedly at first, yet without reservation by the end of the day. Soon I was telling him my own stories, just as I thought I should have done the night before. He listened carefully with a tilt of his head, eyes focused on my face as if each word had significant meaning. I had not been so open since Billy and it felt liberating to just chatter! Another meeting of the lips and this time I closed my eyes and allowed the kiss to linger with a sense of a new open-mindedness in a freethinking world. So many tingling counter emotions ran through me: to hold him or to run freely through
the meadow; to kiss him again or to prattle; to speak of emotions or to talk more on politics. My reserved nature won out and politics were exhausted. He was good-natured about it all and seemed to take whatever the day and I had to offer. Much later than anticipated, we were on our way back to town, both expressing what an enjoyable day it had been.
The early evening hour found him again at our doorstep with hat in hand, here for supper again, invited by Mrs. Murphy. She fussed around him as if he was head of the household and Mrs. Catt made it clear she thought the world of him. I told myself I was outnumbered and did not tell him to go away.
Mr. Phillips noticeably grew under this praise, as a plant would when placed in the sun with moist soil. Their attention and Eunice’s pining gaze further bowed my thoughts of him to a positive way, neglecting the negative view I had carefully fostered of men. Wasn’t it time I moved on with my life? I rationalized. The war of women was over. When men ended a war, they returned to home and hearth. Where was I to go? My title and rank of suffragist was no longer valid or necessary. My home base, the Lighthouse, served only a wayward station; abused women came there in transit to decide what to do and where to go. It was never intended to be a permanent residence for anyone. Not even the homeowner, Thomas, actually lived there (not since his wife, Cady, died anyway) but only checked in periodically.
And I would certainly be too old to return to my parents’ house. I would feel as a failure – worse yet, Papa would view me as a failure. He once told me I wanted only romance, not responsibility. “What is wrong with romance?” I challenged. Mama lowered my raised eyebrows with, “You have to work in the dirt, to get the flowers.” I supposed they were right. I needed to settle, to root; I needed a home and a hearth of my own.
Four of a Kind: A women's historical fiction Page 5
